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  “Where you from, Carter?” Laney asks, trotting beside me. Trish is beside her, impressively keeping up with us by moving her legs twice as fast.

  “Georgia.”

  “Hotlanta?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “What happened to your folks?” she asks.

  “I never knew them.”

  “Oh,” she says. Surely announcing that I’m an orphan will stop her chatter.

  Or not. “We’re all orphans these days,” she says. Her eyes meet mine, and the truth of her words sink in. Friendless. Parentless.

  “Guess so,” I say.

  The sun is long gone and we’ve been running for miles and miles when we see the sign. “Welcome to Pennsylvania.” There’s a black line spray-painted across “Penn,” with thick, red, scrawled letters spelling “Tran” beneath it. Transylvania. Clever, but I think the miscreant got vampires and witches slightly confused. I guess they hadn’t read Harry Potter and Twilight to learn the difference.

  I’m tired, but not exhausted, my muscles accustomed to long hours of use after traversing a good chunk of what’s left of the United States. But I don’t know about the others, who’ve been holed up for months, probably getting limited use out of their legs.

  “Do you all need to stop?” I ask Laney.

  “I can run every bit as long as you can,” she says.

  Choosing to take the high road, I say, “I meant your sister.” I meant them both.

  “She’s fine, too,” she says. “We did daily exercises together. I wasn’t about to let a little thing like the witch apocalypse stop us from staying healthy.”

  Why does that not surprise me?

  “Fair enough,” I say. So after only a brief stop to rehydrate, we push on, following our quarry late into the night. Hours later we reach Waynesburg, PA, twenty-six miles from Morgantown, WV based on my map. A marathon. It’s not the first time I’ve run a marathon in a single go, and surely not the last time, but unlike the sporting version of the event, there are no cheering crowds and volunteers handing out water bottles and free t-shirts. The end of our marathon is met with silent, trash-filled streets.

  To my surprise, Trish doesn’t even look tired. Obviously there’s more to her than an air-drawing traumatized little girl. Laney, on the other hand, looks ready to keel over. A few pointed comments run through my mind, but I leave them there, determined to keep the peace with my new companion.

  The hot glow of a dozen trashcan fires burns somewhere in the distance, likely set by the Necros. We’ve caught them.

  But wait, something’s not right.

  Why would the Necros build their fires in trashcans, like homeless people? I’ve never seen them do that before. Typically they just create fire in thin air, blazing red/orange balls floating like helium balloons, able to heat food from the top, bottom and sides. Three-dimensional fires. Not powerful enough to be weapons, like the Pyros, but good enough for warmth and cooking.

  Unless…

  “No,” I breathe, already a step behind Hex, who figures things out a second before I do.

  “Wait!” Laney shouts. Her footsteps settle in behind me more slowly.

  My own legs protesting, I sprint toward the fires, throwing caution to the light breeze cooling my sweaty arms and legs. When I reach the first trashcan, Hex is growling and barking at the black metal cylinder, which has bright red, yellow and orange flames poking from the top, like strange, spiky hair. I know what I’m going to see when I peek over the side of the can, but I look anyway, because I have to be sure…

  Charred bones, free of skin.

  A burnt out skull, bald, with gaping pits for eyes, a triangular cavity where a nose used to be, and a lipless mouth full of fire-blackened teeth.

  I’ve seen bodies disposed of this way many times before, by a wayward sect of a club in which I’m a somewhat reluctant member. They call themselves The End, and I’ve seen them in action twice since I left Mr. Jackson’s house. They’re violent and arrogant and deadly as hell. A magical weapons supplier I met a while back named Tillman Huckle seemed to know everything there was to know about The End, and he was happy to share it all with me.

  Laney catches up, breathing heavily. She scans the trashcans, her eyes wide and white.

  “Bad witch hunters,” she says.

  Trish starts drawing in the air.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bankers and housewives and teenagers today,

  Killers tomorrow.

  Are we slaves to the violence?

  Or has the violence become our tool?

  Witch Hunters, Rhett Carter

  ~~~

  The Necros are all dead.

  The flaming trashcans make up the points of a pentagram, a purposeful mockery of magic and witchcraft.

  I crouch in the center, drawing a circle in the dirt while Trish draws something in the air. My lead is gone as quickly as I found it.

  We were too slow.

  Did the Necros deserve to die? Probably. No, definitely. But that doesn’t make it any easier, because without them to follow I might as well be searching for a pebble in a quarry.

  Hex growls beside me, staring into the gloom, which is made all the darker by the bright fires around us. Someone can see us, but we can’t see them.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Laney says.

  Trish stops drawing, as if her sister said exactly what she was trying to communicate.

  “Leaving so soon?” a voice says in the dark. I’d recognize it anywhere. One part confidence, two parts arrogance, and a hundred parts douchebag. When he was a highly successful mixed martial arts fighter they called him the Gravedigger. Now he just goes by Graves.

  He steps into the light and Hex barks.

  “Tell that filthy mutt of yours to shut his trap or I’ll take him apart piece by piece,” Graves sneers, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him tight against his skin.

  “I’d like to see you try,” Laney says, leveling her shotgun at Graves. A sudden swell of appreciation for my new companion fills my chest.

  Hex barks again, although I’m sure he understood exactly what Graves said. It almost makes me smile. “Shhh,” I murmur, not because I’m worried about my dog’s safety—Hex can handle himself—but because I actually need to talk to this thug. I need information.

  “Scram before I fill that empty head of yours with lead,” Laney says.

  “Laney,” I say. “It’s okay.” She fires me an annoyed look and keeps her shotgun up. But she closes her lips.

  I ease to my feet, still a half-head lower than the giant standing before me. His skin isn’t quite as dark as mine, but it appears as if it is because of the dozens of dark tattoos winding themselves around his forearms and biceps, which are exposed by his dirty, white, sleeveless wife-beater. His arms are the size of my legs and his neck as thick as his head. His iron legs are covered by camo pants. A bulging chest screams “Steroids!” When he pounds a fist into his palm, I get the feeling that he could crush stones if he really wanted to. Phone books beware!

  Hex is silent, too, although he maintains his attack position.

  “That’s better,” Graves says. “You should teach your dogs some respect for their superiors.”

  Laney takes a step forward and I have to throw an arm in front of her to stop her. My fingertips brush against her chest. “Really, Carter? A boob graze? I know this is our second date, but stealing second base is a bit fast for me.” I withdraw my hand quickly, somewhat embarrassed, but at least she stays put.

  “Did any Necros get away?” I ask Graves. I’m pretty sure I know the answer already.

  He laughs and that answers my question. “The End is near,” he says, taking a step forward. Hex bares his teeth.

  “Fascinating,” I say.

  “When The End arrives, the witches die.”

  “Original,” Laney say. “You should really write this stuff down.”

  “Why are you so interested in whether any Necros survived?” Grave
s asks.

  “Morbid curiosity,” I say.

  Graves frowns. “You’re a smartass,” he says.

  “Guilty,” I say.

  “My respect for you just went up ten percent,” Laney says to me.

  “I don’t like smartasses,” Graves says, ignoring her.

  “And I don’t like you,” I say. Winding up a gargantuan ogre isn’t a smart move, but growing up a straight-A bookworm has given me plenty of practice trading insults with bullies.

  “I’ve killed men for saying less,” Graves says.

  “I’ll bet you have,” I say.

  “But I’ve seen your work—it’s good.”

  “You’re the last person I’m trying to impress,” I say.

  “So I’m going to give you an option.”

  I manage to keep my lips shut, barely. To my surprise, Laney does too.

  “Join The End or die. It’s your choice.”

  I almost throw up in my mouth. “Look, I really appreciate the offer…”

  “It’s not an offer. I’ll even let your dogs live.”

  “…but I think I’ll take a rain check,” I finish, stepping in front of Laney before she can charge the man who’s twice her size.

  “End!” he shouts.

  Hex begins barking like mad, running in circles. Forms emerge from the darkness, surrounding us. Awesome, I think. Perhaps Laney and I both should’ve reigned in our sharp tongues.

  To our right is a dude with a cowboy hat and boots. He’s swinging a lasso over his head with one hand while spinning a silver pistol with the other. “Yeehaw!” he says, like we’re nothing more than a few calves he’s looking to hogtie. The Mad Sheriff they call him, although there’s a rumor that his real name is Frances.

  On our left is a young Japanese girl they call the Silent Assassin, on account of how quietly she moves while killing. Her dual knives flicker with firelight.

  I hear footsteps from behind and whirl around. A fourth assailant tosses a green, egg-like object back and forth between his two hands. Eddie X. A Harvard dropout with an uncanny knack for building explosives out of boring household items. The X is for eXplosion. Apparently The End used to have a few more members, but one of Eddie’s experiments went wrong, taking out an entire witch gang along with two End members.

  The egg is a grenade. Double awesome.

  “Hold on just a minute,” I say, loud enough to be heard above Hex’s barking. “Let’s talk about this.” Now I decide to be diplomatic.

  “Less talking, Carter,” Laney says. “More shooting.”

  “You can talk to my knives,” Silent says, dramatically slashing the air to ribbons.

  “Yeehaw!” Mad says.

  “Catch,” Eddie says, pretending to toss me the grenade. Pathetically, I flinch.

  “So you’ve changed your mind?” Graves says. I really wish he’d stop pounding his fist into his palm.

  I should say “Yes! Yes! Pick me, pick me!” but instead I say, “Not exactly.” Stupid honesty.

  “Kill them,” Graves growls. Great, the witch hunters have become witch hunter hunters. I wonder if they’ll start introducing themselves that way.

  Mad’s lasso flies toward me but my sword’s already out and I’m slashing upward, splitting the rope in half, whirling to block two vicious slices by the Assassin, which are aimed at Trish. The girl is motionless, just staring at our assailants, as if they’re nothing more than characters in a video game. A gunshot rips through the night, but I’m too close to Silent now and the shot is aimed at the sky, just a warning, my sword deflecting off her knives with heavy clangs that send shivers through my hands. And the whole time I’m wondering whether Eddie the genius-sociopath will pull the pin on his grenade and send us all to a better place.

  A sharp knife-point slips through my defenses, sliding cleanly across my shoulder, injecting burning pain into my nerves. I grab Silent’s arm, twist it hard, and push her away as she screams.

  Her next slash is on target, and I’m not prepared to block it, but then Laney’s shotgun is between us, the sword clanging off the metal, just between where Laney’s gripping it with two hands.

  Gorilla hands close around my neck from behind. “The End is near,” Graves whispers in my ear, squeezing the very last usefulness out of an already worn out phrase. And all I can think is: I really hope those aren’t the last words I hear before I die.

  Watching as one of Mad’s lassos loops around Laney’s neck, I drop my sword, clawing at the hands around my neck, which are impossibly strong, like a vice, my face burning from lack of oxygen, my eyes starting to bulge…

  And Laney falls to the ground, pulled over by a yank from the Mad Sherriff…

  BOOM!

  A gunshot slams into my eardrums and Graves cries out—“AHHH!”—and the pressure releases from my neck. I collapse to the ground, my lungs heaving, my throat on fire, my stomach threatening to toss up undigested jerky.

  Another gunshot. Then another. BOOM! BOOM!

  I’m seeing stars, exploding in front of my eyes like fireworks; spots blink on and off, like drops of gold and silver and bronze. Hex continues barking amidst cries of “Run!” from Gravedigger and the Mad Sheriff.

  Heavy footsteps pound the hard ground. Gunshots threaten like thunder. And I suck at the air like a baby at a bottle’s rubber nipple.

  What just happened? Amongst other guesses, I consider the possibility that Hex managed to get his hands on Mad’s pistol, turning the weapon on our attackers. It’s something he would do. Of course, he’d have to have grown opposable thumbs first. Again, that’s something he would do.

  Even as I try to blink away the exploding stars and the bright spots, something wet and slobbery tickles my cheek. A tongue.

  Blech.

  My vision returns and Hex looks down at me, his head cocked to the side. What are you doing down there? his expression says.

  Footsteps crunch on gravel and he’s immediately on high alert again, turning in the direction of the noise, growling. I sit up and wait for the return of The End, or perhaps someone worse. Laney is back on her feet, spinning in circles, her finger on the trigger. She hasn’t even bothered to pull the lasso away from her, the ropes dangling from her shoulders.

  Trish raises a hand, pointing into the darkness.

  And from the exact spot she’s pointing, Bil Nez steps into the circle of light and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bilagaana Nez—Bil for short—is a witch hunter, like me. Slightly older, in his early twenties, he’s refused to join any witch hunter groups. A loner, also like me. We’ve crossed paths a few times, fought a few exceptionally nasty witches together. Parted amicably on more than one occasion.

  Hex continues growling. “Sit, Hex,” I command. As usual, he ignores me and keeps growling.

  “Your dog never did like me,” Bil says. His already-brown skin—he’s half-Navajo—is well-tanned by significant portions of time spent outdoors under the hot Arizona sun. Phoenix is his home. Or at least it was, until he left to travel across the country, hunting witches. Homes don’t really exist anymore. I mean, who would’ve thought a southern boy like me would end up in Pennsylvania?

  “Hex doesn’t like anyone,” I say.

  “He likes you,” Bil points out.

  “Someone should tell him that,” I say, scratching my dog behind the ears. He’s as stiff as a plank of wood, still tense from the battle with the other witch hunters.

  “Who the hell are you?” Laney says. “Carter, you know this guy?”

  “Not a nice way to introduce yourself to the guy who just saved your life,” Bil says.

  “Thanks,” Laney says. “So who the hell are you?”

  Bil laughs. “As much as I’d like to continue trading barbs with this little spitfire you managed to rope”—he chuckles again while Laney pulls the lasso off her shoulders—“we should get out of here,” he says. “They’ll be back.”

  I nod. “I just got here. You know a plac
e?” I ask.

  “Carter, wait. We should talk about this. You trust this guy?”

  I don’t really trust anyone, but Bil did just save our lives. “Mostly,” I say, which earns me a smirk from Bil.

  “Follow me,” he says. “I’ve been here a week.”

  “Thanks,” I say, but he just turns away. Saving lives is a thankless job these days.

  Putting pressure on the gash on my shoulder, I traipse behind Bil’s brown cargo shorts, trying to read the tour dates off the back of whatever rock band t-shirt he’s wearing. July 9th Cincinnati, September 7th San Diego, November 14th Dallas. Meaningless cities and meaningless dates.

  Behind me, Hex pauses for a moment, but then trots forward, brushing against my side. He looks calm again, like he’s just going for his daily walk, but I know better. His ears are perked up and he’s ready to defend us at a moment’s notice. Good dog, I think.

  Laney falls in behind me, muttering something nasty under her breath about witch hunters.

  “What happened to your crossbow?” I ask Bil, keeping my voice low.

  “Still got it,” Bil says, “but I nabbed this old boy”—he taps the barrel of his rifle with his hand—“off a dead witch hunter back in Columbus, Ohio.”

  “I thought you hated guns,” I say.

  “They’re growing on me,” he says, pushing his black ponytail behind his head. “Some folks deserve a bullet in the head.”

  This Bil is different than the one I met three months ago. Rougher, harsher. What happened to him between then and now?

  We reach a row of houses across from a mini-mart. After snapping a quick glance in either direction, Bil opens the gate to a small, red-brick duplex and ushers us inside. “Youth, dogs, and women before beauty,” he says.

  “You fit at least two of those three things,” Laney retorts. “So you should go first.”

  “I’ll go first,” I say, trying to diffuse another potential argument.